


The Pulse Of Home

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 08:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15190964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: Each of their heartbeats meant something different to him. Or, really, maybe they didn’t.





	The Pulse Of Home

**Author's Note:**

> Spiritual sequel to [The Heart Of Fools](http://fishfingersandjellybabies.tumblr.com/post/173130656382/the-heart-of-fools-fic). Damian’s really depressing sometimes wow haha.

It wasn’t love that had him standing in this darkened doorway. Or caring. Maybe interest, maybe confusion, but definitely not because he _cared_.

Damian Wayne didn’t _care_.

In fact, he was here because it was his job. Because Robin protected Batman, and he found that that job never ceased, even when they were out of their uniforms. Even when they were sleeping.

Or, one of them was.

Grayson had gone out on his own tonight. Stupid, really, and Damian was sure to let him know that when he returned, full of more bullet wounds than blood. That’s what partners are for, he’d shouted as Alfred dragged his guardian to the medbay. To protect each other. That’s what he was _here_ for!

That idiot just smiled, then. Delirious with blood loss as he flopped onto a gurney.

“No, you’re not.” He slurred. “You’re here for _me_ to protect _you_.”

Alfred had shooed him away, then. Told him to go wait in the penthouse. Damian reluctantly stomped off to do so, a heavy weight in his gut. Not guilt, right? Damian had nothing to feel guilty for.

Right?

He ended up dozing off in his wait, and when he woke, could hear the beeping of a monitor coming from Grayson’s room.

He sat there a moment, listening to that beep. Glanced out the window at the city below them. The city, he found, he was starting to think of as…as home.

After a moment he slid off his bed, quickly pattering to the bedroom down the hall, listening as that beeping got louder. Because it made sense. Of course it did. He didn’t protect Grayson then, so he would do it now.

No. No love here. He’d deny it until he died. It was his job. That’s all.

But still, standing here now. In this dark doorway, the dim night his only light. He could see Grayson’s form, in his bed. A heart monitor hooked up to his bare and bandaged chest, with a small oxygen canola wrapped around his cheeks and shoved up his nose.

He looked like shit. He wouldn’t have to look like shit, though, if he’d just let Damian come with him and _watch his damn back._

At least, that’s what he should have been thinking.

Instead, all he could think of was that the oxygen tubing was kinked, Grayson wasn’t getting any air. The stitches might have broken already, and Pennyworth was already asleep, he wouldn’t be able to fix them.

Instead, all he could think was that the heart monitor could be wrong.

What if there was no heartbeat? What if the machine was malfunctioning?

He swallowed the lump in his throat, wondering briefly where it came from, and stepped forward until his knees hit Grayson’s mattress. Grayson didn’t move, didn’t stir, and it was too dark to see a rise and fall of his chest.

Those thoughts were starting to become panic.

He’d failed. He didn’t do his job. He’d failed his _job_. Failing in this job meant _death_. Failing in this job meant going back to Mother and Grandfather and doing things…doing things he _didn’t want to do anymore_.

His own breath shuddered as he did the only thing he could think of. It was childish, and primitive, but as his life of training taught him: sometimes the simplest method is the best.

So he leaned down, careful of the wounds, and gently laid his ear against Batman’s chest.

One second, two. That panic was building, and clouding his senses. But by three – there it was. Rhythmic and stable.

Dick Grayson’s heartbeat.

And no one was around to see Damian’s knees almost go weak in relief. So no one could call him out on it.

Just as no one could call him out on slowly crawling into bed, and ducking into his mentor’s side, ear still pressed against his ribs. Because yeah – he’s breathing now, but what if the machines malfunction later? What if he stopped breathing, _later_?

It was only logical, he told himself, not noticing the fingers slowly and warmly snaking over his shoulder. He should stay and make sure Grayson lives through the night.

Because it was his job. He was to watch Batman’s back, always. And he would not fail his job.

Ever.

~~

He was asleep in the chair, which was annoying, because Damian had only come down here to use that very computer. And why couldn’t his father have a normal computer chair? One on wheels, that could be moved? No, it had to be _bolted_ to the floor.

His father was an animal.

Regardless, Drake passed out in the computer chair would make it very difficult for him to use said computer. And even if he managed to shimmy himself between his unconscious brother and the machine, knowing Drake, when he woke he’d just start a fight, and Damian was in no mood for it.

So he sighed, resigned to not doing what he wanted to, and was about to turn when he saw Drake shiver. Just slightly, barely noticeable at all, but he saw it. Of course he did. His skills are perfect.

That’s when he realized Drake wasn’t in costume. He wasn’t even in normal clothing. Just shorts and a tank top.

What an idiot. Did he not understand caves are cold? It’s like he’d never been here before.

He sighed again, stomping off to the lockers, pulling one of the blankets Pennyworth kept there off a shelf. Unfolding it as he stomped back to the computer.

He grumbled under his breath as he laid it over his brother, that he was stupid, ridiculous. That somehow he’d be blamed if Drake got a cold, or didn’t feel well or smothered himself in this dumb blanket. Somehow, everything would be his fault.

But then he paused, staring down at his handiwork. At his pathetic excuse for a brother.

…

So pathetic he had to fight him for his father’s affection, and a place in this family. So pathetic Ra’s al Ghul wanted this man to work alongside him. Finds him worthy enough to be his next vessel, yet still held in the highest respect.

So if Drake was pathetic, and still had all that going for him, what did that make him? What did that make Damian?

Even worse than pathetic, he imagined.

And he couldn’t help but wonder what Ra’s saw in him, in this Timothy Drake. Sure he was smart, and talented to a point. But he was young, common and overly emotional. His emotions _ruled_ him, and that wasn’t useful anywhere. Damian learned that from his own experiences.

But even more than wondering what Drake had that his grandfather and everyone else wanted, he focused on what he knew his grandfather would _do_ to him.

Even if he only wanted Drake to stand alongside him, he’d hurt him. He’d destroy him mind, body and soul, just because it amused him. Not for tactical reasons, or loyalty, or even to get at Batman. Just because he could.

Look at his poor mother, after all.

Slowly, Damian reached out, put his hand along Drake’s throat, and felt that light heartbeat thrum under his fingertips.

…No.

Not this one.

His grandfather couldn’t have this one. Damian wouldn’t let him take this supposed victory.

“On my life.” Damian murmured. Drake snorted and twisted, and immediately Damian pulled his hand away. “I will not let you take this one, Ra’s.”

 _If only because my father loves him_ , he didn’t let himself think. _And he is less replaceable than I am._

He inhaled, and held his breath, deciding he didn’t need the computer as much as he thought. But as he turned and walked away, he felt his hand involuntarily curling into a fist.

No, not this one, Grandfather. Over his own dead body.

~~

He didn’t get there in time. Though, in his defense – no one did. In fact, he got there first, out of anyone.

Still, the scene he came across wasn’t pretty.

Todd was chained up in the middle of the room. Shirtless, bloody, arms held out wide, legs tied together, unconscious.

At least – Damian hoped he was only unconscious.

The blood was still dripping, though, so maybe there was a chance. Surely his brother’s attackers weren’t that far. He radioed his arrival to the rest of the family, let them know he was with Todd, and they could go after the ones who did this to him if they felt it better.

But there was always that chance it was too late, and Damian never had the best of luck. Todd could already be gone. Todd could already be dead.

And he knew he’d be blamed.

He knew it’d be his fault.

Regardless, he tried to jump into action. Ran forward calling for the Hood, hoping he’d wake up, hoping he’d at least stir.

When he got close enough, the faint scars of Todd’s autopsy from once upon a time became clearer, more noticeable. The first time Jason died. Not the first time he was failed, of course, but the first time it was fatal.

Damian didn’t want to be another one who disappointed him.

And maybe it was his adrenaline, or his exhaustion, or the relief that he found his brother, but those lines, that Y in the center of the man’s chest, was warping his thoughts.

 _He’s dead already_ , Damian’s brain supplied. _Doesn’t matter about any movements. Death twitches. Look at the scar. He’s dead and gone._

No. Damian felt his eyes misting over. No, he wouldn’t let him be.

He wiped some of the blood away, ignoring how it stuck to his gloves, or the streaks it left behind on Todd’s skin. The y-incision became clearer.

He thought he saw Todd’s chest move in a breath. Thought he heard a tired moan. But his brain wouldn’t let him have hope. His brain told him hope was stupid – as stupid as loving anyone in this family. As stupid as hoping they loved him too.

But in his moment of desperation, he did the only thing he could think of. He leaned forward and pressed his ear along the left spoke of the Y. Blood squished along the lines of his ear, but he ignored it, ignored his own breaths. Wished them into Todd’s own body frankly, and listened.

It was slow and weak. Barely there at all. But it was. Jason Todd still had a heartbeat.

And now Damian needed to do everything he could to keep it that way.

Keeping his ear to Todd’s chest, he grabbed a knife from his belt, and reached up, beginning to slice at the ropes. It only took a few minutes, but it felt like forever, before Todd’s weight collapsed onto his neck and shoulders.

He grunted, and twisted painfully underneath Todd’s body, then wrapped his arms backwards around Todd’s torso, and began dragging him as quickly as he could to the outside.

And that heartbeat was no longer against his ear – though the blood all still was – but he could still feel it pulsing lightly against his spine. And that was incentive enough.

So he put all of his strength into it. He dragged and he pulled. It was slow, and he cursed his own measly size for it. But that heartbeat against his neck kept him going. Even when he got outside, and Nightwing and Batman swooped down on them, that heartbeat against his back gave him purpose.

(Because, he thought as he waved his family on to find the criminal, laid Todd on the ground, and checked his pulse with an ear to his chest again – if he could save one, if he could save _this_ one, keep _this_ heartbeat going, then maybe he could be saved too.

Maybe he could still be saved too.)

~~

Tim stood as he stormed into the medbay, already trying to get between Damian and his sister.

Damian ignored him, shoving him to the side to hiss, “You’re an _idiot_.”

Cassandra just stared up at him blankly.

“You could have died.” Damian continued. “What were you thinking?!”

“That my family would come home.” Cassandra returned defiantly. “Innocent people. Saved.”

And that wasn’t good enough. For some reason, that answer wasn’t good enough, despite it being the exact thing he’d have said – _has_ said – in similar situations.

So it was his blind anger, his worry, and just straight up habit when he snapped: “The League would be ashamed.”

The silence was louder than his words, since all three in the space knew what League he was referring to. The League of Assassins. The League of Shadows. The league that had tortured and maimed he and his sister both.

Tim was instantly furious, grabbing at Damian’s shoulder to yank him back and away. Harsh words at the ready to shun this brat. To Damian’s merit, he probably would have let him, regret already igniting his blood.

But to both of their surprise, Cassandra got him first. Not to push him away, or in anger, but to gently hold his hand, and pull him towards her.

“Good.” She said instead. “They do not own me.” She pulled Damian’s hand up to hold against her chest, right across a bandage. He could feel the twitch of her heart beating against her skin. “They do not own this.”

Damian’s shoulders relaxed. And he kept his hand against her heart even as she let him go. She watched him for a few seconds, then smiled, bright and warm, as she reached up and put her hand against his chest too.

“They do not own yours either.” She whispered. “Never will again. Dick will make sure of that. _I_ will make sure.”

Tim scoffed, offended.

Cassandra chuckled. “Tim will make sure, too. Your whole family.”

“ _Our_ whole family.” Damian countered, pressing his fingertips against that heartbeat. Focusing on it only. She was here. His sister was _here_. And she was hurt, but not dying. She would remain.

She nodded. “We are free.”

And she was right.

Damian only returned the nod, and didn’t put up much of a fight when she shifted her hand to tug at his shirt and made room for him on her cot. He let her curl him into his side, and leaned his head against her chest when she began to silently stroke at his hair. Even clung to her, like a child to their parent, and let her strong heartbeat lull him into a doze.

They were free.

~~

This wasn’t the first time he was separated from his father. Wasn’t the first time Batman or Bruce Wayne had been threatened, taken, or presumed dead.

But this time was different. He didn’t know why. Maybe because this time he actually believed he’d never seen his dad ever again.

So when his father stumbled through the door in the half collapsed building, suit jacket gone, remaining clothes burned and in tatters, but still alive – Damian couldn’t help but let out the gasp of a sob. Couldn’t help but drop his tough, emotionless exterior, regardless of the colorful costume he was wearing, and run at his father as fast as he could.

Bruce saw him at the last second, and Damian didn’t see the relief in his own shoulders at the sight of his son. Too busy launching himself at his father, wrapping his arms as far around him as he could, and pressing his cheek to Bruce’s chest.

His heartbeat was stuttering and fast, but it was there.

It was there and that was all that mattered.

Bruce seemed in a daze, questioning someone across the room. Grayson or Brown most likely. Whomever he was speaking to was answering. But Damian didn’t care. They could all be saying they hated him, and it wouldn’t make a difference. He focused on that heartbeat. Let his father’s heartbeat be the loudest thing in his life.

But because he had tuned them all out, he didn’t know why he was suddenly being lifted, a hand suddenly cradling the back of his head, even as he shifted so his ear was against Bruce’s throat, still connected to that heartbeat like his soul depended on it.

He moved his own arms too, rearranged his embrace from this father’s torso to his neck, and clung with everything he had. His father seemed to be clinging to him too, and wasn’t that funny. They were here to rescue _him_ , why was he acting so relieved to see them, like they were the ones in danger? Like he was the one grateful because they were still alive, not the other way around?

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

Damian closed his eyes as Bruce leaned his cheek against his temple. Faintly noticed his father’s arm shaking under his thighs, wondered if it was from that same relief or from pain. He was hurt after all. So he should put Damian down, save his strength-

When Damian shifted to be released, Bruce just tightened his hold, pressed his cheek further again Damian’s head, and let out a shaky exhale.

“Thanks for finding me, son.” He whispered.

Damian just nodded, and let himself be carried away.

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

~~

“…Heartbeats are like fingerprints.” Damian quipped one day, as he glanced down to dip his brush into a new color of paint. In the corner of his eye, he saw Alfred – both grandfather and cat – look up at him.

“How so?” Alfred asked, closing the book he’d been reading, but keeping his finger wedged in the pages to keep his place.

“Everyone’s sound different.” Damian mused. “Some are fast, some are slow. Some are irregular. Some are soft, some are loud. Some you can even _see_.”

“I suppose so, yes. I never really thought of that, Master Damian.” Alfred hummed. He continued to watch the boy paint for a moment, before standing and stepping up next to him for a closer look, holding his book behind his back. Damian never stopped in his movements, unbothered by the attention. “…What does mine sound like, I wonder?”

Damian glanced back at him as he finished a stroke, then turned towards him, instantly throwing his arms around him, pressing his head thoughtfully against Alfred’s chest. He closed his eyes in concentration, then they immediately flew open, a warm, mischievous grin on his face as he looked up.

(And he looked oh, so like his father. In this moment. Every day.)

“Like home.”

Alfred blinked, and returned the grin, leaning over to hold his boy too, and pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of his head.


End file.
